Clothing and blinkers
I had decided that all we needed to bring to Italy were a few skirts (me) and a few t shirts and shorts (my son). But it is raining in Venice, with thunderstorms predicted for the day of our arrival. I am horrified. A raincoat? Blue jeans? I wanted our suitcases to weigh less than a feather. We have to save room for our books. My mind is full of lists. Euros, straw hat, sunglasses, snacks for the plane ride. My Italian CDs have whizzed past “Encounter with a stranger” to “How many litres of gas do I want in my car” and “What is the way to Rome?” This last sentence is evocative, I admit. What indeed is the way to Rome? A centuries old question. But we are going to be nowhere near Rome. And although I toyed with renting a car, I could not quite imagine doing this: waiting in line at the car rental place, finding places to park, zipping along the Italian freeways. Besides, my friend Paul who will also be in SIcily vetoed it. He hates how I drive — we have a long-standing debate about this — and he said that I would kill myself and others as Sicily is notorious for crazy driving. This is his opinion, not mine. I feel that a Boston driver can compete with anyone any day. Years ago, when I was driving with a veteran Ma driver, I turned on my blinker to merge onto Storrow Drive and she shouted, “Are you crazy? You don’t want to let anyone know what you are going to do. ” I had never thought of turn signals as public displays of intention. But they are. Most things that we do outside of the house are, I suppose.